The Necromancer and I Swim Together in Cindy’s Pool

Photo: Nynke Passi

every afternoon at four. Her name is Maria. She tells me my mother hangs
in the crown of the Sycamore, watching me. My father is there,

too. I can’t see either of them, of course, though I strain, staring
into sunlight. The necromancer assures me my mother is real.

The necromancer is blind and psychic. She lives three doors down.
She makes a living channeling dead souls, talking to clients

on the phone from home. I ask, “Who are the dead souls you speak with?”
“O, anyone,” she says, “anyone who cares to come. My dead husband

and some dear dead old friends are my personnel. They help me adjust
to the world—you know, give advice.” She tells me she talks to them

all the time, waits for their signal before she gets into the water or crosses
the road when she’s out on a walk. That way she doesn’t need a cane.

Whenever I step through the gate into Cindy’s garden, I find Maria
already submerged, doing laps, mumbling, lips moving.

“It’s me, Maria,” I’ll say. “O hi!” She waves a pool noodle, making waves.
As soon as I get in, I pick up the black net and begin to skim for bugs—

ants, moths, flies, and bees—because I don’t want her to swallow one.
Once she accidentally scooped up a wasp in her open mouth. It stung.

She told me her tongue inflated “like a raft, a leaky one
on which no one gets saved.” She gulps down water, laughing,

telling me jokes. She is always amused by the wisecracks of her personnel
or ghosts. I am not in on the humor. It has happened twice

that I got mad at my parents because of the necromancer’s words.
“I checked with your parents, but they say you aren’t psychic,”

followed by a chortle. Or: “They are not so sure you keep a clean house!”
One day she is gleeful. She talks in two tonal heights, a low

bassoon alternated by a high-pitched, girly chuckle. “Your parents tell me
you did not have children because your husband is your child!”

she announces. It takes me a few days to digest that one.
That very night I dream that I open the door to a room

and my mother stands there in front of a mirror, in dim light. I ask her,
“Do you love me?” My mother shrugs her shoulders. In my dream, I slap

her cheek. She doesn’t fight back but gently leans over
and kisses my forehead. The next time I swim in Cindy’s pool,

the necromancer says, “Your mother tells me you should check
your car before you drive out of town. She and your father

are inspecting your tires. They say you need to replace your tires.”
That afternoon, I ask my mechanic to have a look. I don’t tell him,

“A necromancer sent me. My dead mother sent me.” He takes time,
crawling on his back under the rusted body. When he comes up for air,

he confirms: “I can’t believe I missed how bald these are! Yes, I’ll replace
them, you should not drive anywhere like this!” So you could say

that my dead mother saved my life. The necromancer smiles
a Sphynx-like smile as she swims in her white T-shirt, yellow shorts,

a pink cap on her head. She’s in good shape. “Maria, please thank my mother
for the advice on the car.” The necromancer squeals, stirring up water.

I add, hesitantly, “Can you tell my mother I love her?”
She does not respond, as if she does not hear me. I wait at the edge

of the pool in my bathing suit, pulling a striped towel around my shoulders,
feet bare on hot cement. The necromancer slowly flips

a green pool noodle under her neck, turns on her back. Her eyes stare
blindly at nothing as she answers, “Your mother already knows.”

Included in audio format in TelePoem Booth, Iowa
at PACE, Pottawattamie Arts, Culture and Entertainment Center, Council Bluffs, Iowa